


The Affair of the Star-Crossed Lovers

by LadyKailitha



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, F/M, M/M, Romance, an affair to remember
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 02:53:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyKailitha/pseuds/LadyKailitha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is a playboy from old money that has long since dried up, taking the cruise to see his grandmother one more time before she goes. John is a former lounge singer giving one last gig to his mates. They both are engaged to social heiresses. What happens when they fall in love?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meetings

**Author's Note:**

> With love and thanks to my beta who helped out in every chapter to make this story the thing it is today.

Sherlock Holmes did not want to be on this god-forsaken cruise, but he had promised his fiancée and brother that he would go. He had promised Irene that he would go and relax before their wedding while she dealt with the minutiae of planning the "blessed" event. And he had promised Mycroft that he would visit their grandmother in France before she left this mortal coil. He couldn't disagree with that last one. Their maternal grandmother was the only one in their family that wasn't disappointed in him. The only one to show affection to the bright-eyed boy he'd once been.  
  
But it was the anticipated tediousness of the cruise that bothered him. It was bound to be filled with boring, dull people who would twitter and fawn over him, just because he happened to catch the most eligible woman in all of London, if not all of England. Irene Adler was the owner of several fashion establishments and had come from money herself. To wear Adler was to be in the height of fashion. He still wasn't sure why she picked him out of the sea of men that had been at that gala his brother had forced him to attend. But she had, and he had become instantly famous just by being at her side.  
  
Mycroft had urged that Sherlock marry her before she changed her mind, so for the first time in their twenty-some-odd years of brotherhood, Sherlock did as he was bid and asked her for her hand. He was still stunned that she accepted. He had assumed she would laugh and tell him he was a good boy though not worthy of being more than her bedmate. But she had been thrilled and had started squealing and jumping up and down.  
  
Sherlock sighed as he looked out the window of the Adler limousine that was driving him to the ship. The QE2. God, could the name be more pretentious? He supposed that there were worse things to name a ship. The Titanic or Lusitania, for example. Two sister ships built by the British that loved to sink to the bottom of the Atlantic. Sherlock's father was in the Royal Navy and disappointed that neither of his boys showed the proper inclination toward the occupation. Mycroft was far too lazy for the hard work and training it would require; and Sherlock? Well, Sherlock couldn't take orders from his own mother, let alone a commanding officer.  
  
But both his parents were gone now. The only family he had left was Mycroft and Grandmére. He rarely saw either one. Mycroft was the only one he chose to not visit, not that that prevented Mycroft from seeing him, however. He was overbearing and overprotective. Sherlock wished he had spent more time with Grandmére but she was often sickly and Sherlock had a hard time getting out of London these days.  
  
So here he was going on this damn cruise just to see her. He sighed dramatically once more and the driver just grinned at him in the mirror. Lestrade was one of the highlights of being with Irene. The man was clever and was completely misspent as a driver but Sherlock would be lost without him. In the two years since he had become Irene's arm candy, he and Lestrade became friends. Or as close to friends as Sherlock ever got.  
  
They pulled up to the ship and Sherlock repressed another sigh as he waited for Lestrade to open the door for him. Once he was out of the car Lestrade patted him on the shoulder.  
  
"Come on, mate. It won't be that bad. Two weeks of relaxation and fun," Lestrade said. Sherlock rolled his eyes, clearly not believing the older man. Lestrade's brown eyes glittered with mirth.  
  
"You'll do fine, Sherlock." Lestrade gave his shoulder a squeeze before letting go to deal with the bellboys taking care of the luggage. Sherlock looked up at the ship with disdain. He wanted to rail and scream and throw a fit on the dock but it would do no good. He would get on this god-forsaken thing and try not to throw himself overboard from sheer ennui. After showing his ticket to the proper person, he followed the bellboy to his assigned room.  
  
Once the bellboy had been tipped and sent on his way, Sherlock flopped on the bed in frustration. He had been on the ship for two minutes and he was already bored. He got up and decided to check out the lounge. He changed into something more relaxed and set out for the commotion of the ship's lounge. At least there he could get some good people watching in and maybe deduce who was having affairs or some other such scandals that would make this trip at least mildly interesting.  
  
As he neared the lounge, he heard the most incredible tenor crooning out a tune he didn't recognize. Not that Sherlock cared; the voice drew him in.  
  
***  
  
"Oh, I wish you didn't have to go," the pretty, buxom blonde murmured into the ear of her equally-blond beau.  
  
"I know, Mary. But this gig was booked before we met, and I can't back out on the boys just because I happened to get engaged to the prettiest socialite in London," he replied.  
  
She giggled. "Oh, John. You know that title belongs to Miss Adler, but thank you anyway." John pulled her in for a kiss. He brushed her hair out of her face and looked down into her eyes.  
  
"The world may think that, but you are far prettier than she'll ever be. All skin and bones. Like models these days. But you…you have curves in all the right places." John nuzzled the top of her head.  
  
"Oi! They want us to set up now!" called out one of the members of his band.  
  
John turned back to Mary and kissed her quickly. "Love you! See you in two weeks!" he shouted over his shoulder as he dashed off. Mary just sighed as she watched her fiancé scramble after his bandmates.  
  
John helped them set up and they got into their costumes. Well, more like dress uniforms. They had all met in the army and when they came back they decided that dress uniforms would make them stand out and damn did it make them look good. Seb was the only one that didn't have at least some kind of tie to the medical service. Bill was an army nurse, Mike was a surgeon, and John was a medic, one of those poor sods that were sent out to the field keep men patched up until they could to Mike and Bill. Seb was one of the lucky ones they had successfully patched up. He also played the bass like a rock god. He certainly looked like one. He was tall and broad-shouldered with dark blond hair that brushed just above his intense brown eyes.  
  
Mike was on guitar, and couldn't be less like Seb if he tried. He was a short, naturally-round man who since leaving the army had only gotten steadily more so. He had mousy brown hair and hid his brown eyes behind large spectacles.  
  
And finally, Bill on drums. He was the red-headed stepchild. Tall and gangly, like he'd never quite grown into his long limbs. His green eyes were bright with a childlike wonder, his hair was curly and would flop in his eyes when he played.  
  
John took the center stage and closed his eyes as the spotlight fell on him. He grabbed the mic and opened his eyes as he crooned out the first note. The crowd fell silent. He would miss that when he married Mary, the feeling of the crowd as he sang. He moved from song to song in the set; the audience became more and more involved as he sang classics and new hits.  
  
John almost missed a note however when he walked in. He was tall, not quite Seb's height. He was lean and wore that suit like a second skin. His curly hair was darkly colored and in the dim light, it looked black. His blue eyes seemed to shear through John.  
  
He closed his eyes and sang the rest of the song, trying hard to get the picture of the beautiful man out of his mind. As the last notes fell from his lips he could hear the pattering sounds of applause.  
  
"Thank you, we are the Northumberland Fusileers and we'll be your entertainment for the duration of your trip. Please join us again tonight after dinner." John stepped away from the mic as the spotlight moved off him and the house lights came up. He moved to talk to Mike about his minor stumbling of the cords during the first song.  
  
Mike blushed. "Sorry. I was just so nervous."  
  
"About what? You've done dozens of these type of gigs," Seb said as he came over to add his tuppence worth to the conversation.  
  
"Yeah," Mike agreed. "But these folk are posh. They ooze money just by breathing."  
  
John laughed. "Not all of them. After all, there'll be a mix of all sorts. The ultra rich to the poor sods like us that would have had to scrape and save for months to get this trip. If, you know, the cruise line wasn't paying for our stay."  
  
Bill laughed. "You are hardly poor now, John. Mary Morstan of the building empire is your fiancée, for Christ's sake."  
  
Seb clapped John on the back. "Just make sure you don't get married on the same day as that posh asshole and his fiancée; otherwise you'll be just a footnote in the entertainment pages."  
  
A low baritone rumble of laugh sounded behind them. John whirled around to see his blue-eyed beauty leaning against one of the pillars, his hands stuffed gracefully in his pockets.  
  
" _Shite!_ " Seb muttered under his breath. John turned to Seb and watched as he colored. He looked over at the dark-haired Adonis and made the connection. Standing before him was Seb's "posh asshole" and fiancé of the woman he'd insulted just mere hours ago.  
  
Seb wasn't going to apologize, however. John didn't blame him. After all, those that eavesdrop hear naught but ill of themselves.  
  
"I'm no different than your singer, if truth be told," Sherlock said as he stood up. John could feel his heart race at how graceful he appeared by doing that. It was fluid, and if John was honest with himself, sexy as hell.  
  
Seb scoffed. "You couldn't be any less like our Johnny than if you were made that way." John blushed at Seb's nickname for him. He didn't like it but no amount of telling the tall former soldier would convince him not use it.  
  
Again that warm laugh echoed through the now-empty lounge. "I may not be a former army medic, blond or short, but I have blue eyes, though mine are lighter. And I'm a poor, lucky schmuck that happened to have one of the prettiest wealthy women in England deign to associate with him."  
  
"Like you've ever worked a day in your life," Seb snarled. John moved to put his hand on his friend's arm to steady him.  
  
"That's where you'd be wrong. Yes, I've been 'classically trained' as it were, but do you know what happens to wealth when your father goes on a ten-year bender before dying from liver disease? The house and everything in it was sold when I was sixteen to pay off his debts. I worked as a waiter to pay my way through university."  
  
"So how did you meet Irene, then?" came the voice from the back as Bill spoke for the first time.  
  
"My brother has a government job and he didn't want to bring just any girl with him as she might 'get ideas', so he forced me to accompany him to some shindig. She was there with her father and I'll be damned if she didn't pick me." Sherlock looked surprised and a little bitter about that.  
  
John was a little taken back by that. Who could possibly be bitter about being picked as Irene Adler's favorite? He looked Sherlock in the eyes and realized the truth. He was marrying Irene because it would bring the Holmes family back to the status it once enjoyed and Sherlock was the sacrificial lamb. John would have been bitter, too.  
  
"Nice to meet you all," Sherlock muttered as he strolled out the doors, leaving the band to stare at the retreating back of the unhappiest, happy man in the world.


	2. Let's Have Dinner

Sherlock walked out and cursed himself. Why had he suddenly been drawn to the lounge singer? Was it the voice? The voice had lured him in, to be sure. But when he saw the way this John seemed to channel the music through himself, it nailed Sherlock solidly to the floor. Of course it helped that John was attractive. He had no doubt that the ladies fell over themselves for the bassist, but John…Sherlock had to stop and lean against the wall. The very thought of those blue eyes piercing the crowd as he sang, made Sherlock weak at the knees.   
  
He pressed his back to the wall and leaned his head against its solidity. A sigh ripped through the dark-haired man and he let his feet buckle under him as he slid to the floor. Sherlock stretched out one leg in front of him while a frustrated hand through his dark curls. He was engaged to be married, for god's sake! He shouldn't be thinking about another person, much less a man, that way.   
  
"Excuse me," a voice said from around the corner. "Can you tell me where Sherlock Holmes's room is? He left his scarf in the lounge earlier, and I just need to return it." The steward mumbled something in reply and Sherlock scrambled to stand up.   
  
He managed to get to an upright position by the time John rounded the corner, holding the most beautiful blue scarf Sherlock had ever seen. John pulled up short when he saw the object of his desire standing in front of him. Sherlock smiled mischievously.   
  
"You know, I don't wear scarves," Sherlock told him, stepping closer. John gulped noticeably.   
  
"Well you should, they would look well on you. Especially this blue one," John replied, handing the taller man the scarf.   
  
"Are you giving me a gift, John?" Sherlock purred, leaning over the man just slightly. "A complete stranger?" John shivered as Sherlock's breath reached his ear.  
  
"Nothing wrong with that," John told him, trying to hide the breathlessness he felt just being so close to Sherlock. "Besides, I wanted to apologize for Seb. He's rough around the edges, but he's just looking out for me. I mean, what hope would me and Mary have against the dark good looks of you and Irene?"  
  
Sherlock chuckled. "Oh I don't know about that…" he murmured. "I think you're very attractive. You have the 'man in a uniform' look that I don't."  
  
John blushed. "I don't doubt that if we got you into a uniform you'd give the look much swagger." Sherlock straightened up and laughed outright.   
  
"Well, I suppose. Would you like to join me for dinner?" Sherlock asked.  
  
John looked up in surprise but he smiled, "Why, Mr. Holmes? Are you asking me, a stranger, to dinner?" he feigned shock.   
  
Sherlock laughed. "I suppose I am, Mr. Watson. Let me drop off your lovely gift and then I'll escort you to dinner."  
  
Sherlock sauntered off the direction of his room and then stopped after a couple of feet to wink suggestively at John. John laughed and followed Sherlock, as was the taller man's intention.   
  
They entered the room and John was blown away by the sheer size of it. He let out a low whistle.   
  
"Wow, so this is what being Irene Alder's fiancé buys?"   
  
Sherlock just shrugged. "Pour yourself a drink, if you'd like; we still have a little time before dinner." He pointed out the bar as he set the scarf on top of his dresser, admiring the texture a moment before letting go.   
  
John gaped at the different varieties of drinks that the bar offered. "Good god, what on earth possessed you to leave the room when you have everything you need right here?" John asked pouring himself a malt Scotch.   
  
Sherlock stepped up behind John and whispered in his ear, "I do now." John's breath hitched and his heart caught in his throat.   
  
"So, dinner is at six?" John asked after he downed the whole glass and poured himself another.   
  
"Yes, and it's only 5:30. Why don't we go up to the deck and chat? Get to know each other a bit before."   
  
John nodded and finished his second drink the way he did his first, in one gulp. They walked to the deck and John was grateful for the cool breeze fanning his heated cheeks. He had just met this man, but there was an instant connection that he never felt with anyone before. And that blew his mind. Not even Mary held this sort of connection. Butterflies at first glance. If anyone had told him before there was such thing as love at first sight! He would have laughed at them. It takes more than that to form an attachment. But now? Now, here was the evidence standing by his side, looking over the aft of the ship.   
  
John looked up into those eyes that were the color of the sea. It was the most beautiful color he'd ever seen. And John had seen a lot beautiful of things in his time traveling the world for Her Majesty's army. The wind whipped their hair around. John's getting messy but Sherlock's just got a tousled look that only enhanced the man's features.   
  
"Well, I've told you a lot about me, John. Tell me about you," Sherlock said, turning to  face the shorter man.  
  
"Well, I joined the army at eighteen and they paid my way for my medical degree. Met up with Bill and Mike in Afghanistan two years ago. Got discharged last year and formed the band about six months ago. At a gig in Soho, I met Mary. Didn't know who she was at the time, just thought she was one of those girls that fluttered at the sight of man in a uniform."   
  
"When did you find out she was worth more money than you made during your entire service?" Sherlock asked, his eyes alight with amusement.   
  
"Oh, couple months into dating. We were out when the paparazzi found us and made a spectacle. Cat was out the bag then."   
  
Sherlock just smiled. He felt so free being with John. Like there were no expectations placed on his shoulders. He could be himself, and that was new.   
  
"Your turn. Come on, you can't have told us everything before," John implored, wanting to know all about the man beside him.   
  
Sherlock chuckled. "My life has been in the papers the last four months; surely there isn't anything you _don't_ know."  
  
John blushed and hung his head a bit shyly. "I don't read the entertainment pages because I usually get angry at what they are posting about me and Mary, so no… the only things I know about you are the things you told the band earlier, and the fact you are marrying Irene Adler."  
  
"Fair enough," Sherlock smiled fondly. "But I think it's time for dinner." He strolled off and when John caught up to him, he leaned over a bit and said. "I don't read those pages for similar reasons."  
  
John laughed as they walked into the dinning hall. "I'm sure Seb could tell us all sorts of things about our lives that we didn't know about."   
  
"I have no doubt," Sherlock sardonically. "Seriously, I can't fathom the things they see fit to publish these days."   
  
They were seated and they looked over the menus in silence. John ordered a steak, medium well, with steamed vegetables and rice pilaf. Sherlock had the chicken and broccoli with penne lightly tossed in garlic oil.  
  
They ate in silence for a while before John plucked up the courage to ask, "So are you going to tell me more about yourself or do I have to stoop to more devious means of prying you for information?"  
  
Sherlock shivered at the suggestion. "And what would these more devious means entail, exactly?" Sherlock purred. _Dear god!_ Just what was he doing? He was taken! He shouldn't be flirting with this man.   
  
While Sherlock panicked, John chuckled. "Now, now, Mr. Holmes. Wouldn't you much rather just find out? Or better yet, just tell me…" John's voice dropped an octave and another shiver ran down Sherlock's spine.   
  
"I surrender, Mr. Watson. I surrender," Sherlock's voice became husky as his breath caught. "My mother died of cancer when I was six, my father drank himself to death. I have an older brother named Mycroft, who is an aide to the Prime Minister."   
  
"Wow. Right, do the rags accuse you of being a gold digger? I could see them being that petty."  
  
"I _am_ a gold digger, John," Sherlock huffed cynically. "I'm only marrying her for her money. That's not to say I don't feel something for her, but let's be honest. She would have been a minor fling had our social status been on equal footing. She gets the prestige of marrying into one of the oldest families in England, the Holmes family name gets brought out of the gutter and we get the fortune we once had. How am I _not_ gold digger?"   
  
John looked at him, sadness set deep in those deep blue eyes of his. "Because you admitted to feeling something for her. Besides, it might turn into something more."   
  
Sherlock shook his head, not in disbelief but because he didn't want it to. He wanted the man in front of him, the one who had, in the space of a few hours of acquaintance, given Sherlock wings. He had been so downtrodden lately. That was one of the reasons Irene insisted on this cruise.   
  
"You're the lucky one," Sherlock blurted out. He blushed and then looked back to his nearly-full plate.  
  
"Because I have Mary?" John asked quietly. Sherlock nodded. "She's a good girl. Really sweet and understanding, but her father is an absolute nightmare. He's the one who's forcing me to quit the band. Mary wanted me to continue because it was something I loved, but her father convinced her that I needed to do something more respectable."  
  
"So what is more respectable in the eyes of Nigel Morstan, businessman extraordinaire?"  
  
"A doctor at a surgery. He even got me a position at this posh clinic. He even didn't even want to me to go on this cruise, telling me that I shouldn't leave this close to the wedding. So I asked him what kind of man would I be for his daughter if I abandoned my duties the first chance something better comes along."  
  
Sherlock laughed. "He must have turned positively purple when you said that! I wish I could have seen it!"  
  
"So you've met my future father-in-law?" John asked, a smile on his face.   
  
"Once. He came to ask Mycroft to put a bug in the ear of the Prime Minister to choose Morstan Industries for the next government building. He didn't like it when I told him that he shouldn't pursue his secretary any further as she was quite clearly a lesbian."  
  
John's eyes nearly popped out of his head. "Tell me you didn't?" His voice held an almost reverent tone.   
  
"I did, actually. He left before seeing Mycroft. I figure I did my brother a favor not having to deal with that odious man."   
  
John laughed. "It's good to meet someone who doesn't hold him in such high esteem. Everyone keeps telling me that I'm lucky he's letting me marry his daughter. Like this is some feudal arrangement or some such nonsense." John looked at his watch and cursed.   
  
"Well, it's been lovely, Mr. Holmes, but unfortunately I am not a man of leisure on this beautiful cruise, so I must bid you adieu. Please say you'll be there, though," John asked as he got up from the table.  
  
"Most assuredly, Mr. Watson. Most assuredly."  
  
"And you're going to tell me how you figured out my last name without me telling you, after the show."  
  
Sherlock just laughed and John took his leave of the tall dark-haired man.   
  



	3. The Kiss

Seb looked up from tuning his bass as John rushed in, his face flushed and a goofy grin spread across it.  
  
"Cutting it a little fine, aren't you, Johnny?" Seb murmured ill-temperedly as he went back to what he was doing. John's already-red face turned a deep crimson.   
  
"Lost track of time," John replied, looking at his feet.   
  
Mike and Bill chuckled as they shook their heads, but stopped when Seb glared at them. John looked around at his bandmates, not understanding the sudden tension, confusion written clearly on his face.   
  
Mike took pity on his lead singer and said, "That Sherlock fellow certainly caught your fancy, John."  
  
"Yeah," Bill chimed in. "The pair of you certainly looked cozy enough at dinner."  
  
Seb growled, deep and low. "What the hell were you doing with him, Johnny? He's a wanker. Everyone knows this, but no…" he seemed to be talking to the air when he went on, "Johnny here has to go and practically throw himself at the bloke's feet." Seb's eyes narrowed on John again. "May I remind you that you are _both_ in committed relationships? For god's sake, Johnny!" Seb huffed.   
  
Mike laughed. "Ain't nothing wrong with a ship-board fling, makes the trip more exciting. Candlelit dinners, walks in the moonlight on deck, and quick tumble or two and then you get off the ship and go back to your boring life and forget it ever happened."  
  
Bill hummed appreciatively. "Oh, hell yeah."  
  
Seb snorted, "You guys make me sick."   
  
John had kept his head down the entire time listening to his bandmates quarrel over his love life, but now it was time to put an end to it.  
  
"Look, we're just friends having a bit of fun with each other. We met this afternoon, for crying out loud. There's nothing going on between us. _I'm not gay_!" John protested.   
  
Bill and Mike exchanged knowing smirks.  
  
"Since when did sexuality become an issue when it came to bed hopping?" Mike asked.   
  
"Oh, I don't know," John growled. "How about the need to feel some sort of attraction to get off?"   
  
Bill laughed. "Mate, the glances between the two of you could light forest fires."   
  
Seb scowled, "People will talk, John. Even if you don't think there's anything going on, people will talk."  
  
John barked out a mirthless laugh. "They do little else." He looked up at the time. "Come on, it's time to go woo the pretty people with our music."   
  
They stepped out on stage to a nice round of applause. John couldn't bear the thought of Sherlock not being there, so he closed his eyes as he crooned their first song. When he got to the chorus, his eyes fluttered open of their own accord and he could see at the table closest to the stage was his raven-haired dinner companion. He smiled, and suddenly he wasn't just singing anymore, he was pouring everything he had into the music, his heart and soul.  
  
The crowd became still as if they feared breaking the spell John was casting on them. Behind him, his band struggled to keep up with the passion he was exuding. John was leaning into the microphone and caressing it like it was his lover. If it had been a different crowd, they would have been moaning from the pure sex appeal John embodied.   
  
Sherlock watched on, entranced. He could feel his heart speed up and his breath turn shallow as he tried to divorce himself from emotions that were pouring out of John. But it was too late, Sherlock was enraptured. He had given his heart and soul to someone he barely knew, to someone he had met only hours before. He forced his eyes to look elsewhere and saw that several of the ladies were fanning themselves. Even a few of the gentlemen shifted in their seats. Sherlock turned his eyes back to the stage.   
  
The song had changed to something slower but it was still infused with that raw emotion. Sherlock tried so hard to concentrate on his drink or anything other than what was going on in front of him but John kept drawing him back. Finally the show was over and Sherlock could breathe again. His heart slowed back down and he took a deep, shuddering breath.  
  
John's eyes pierced Sherlock and his breath hitched again. Sherlock finished the drink in a single gulp and he fought the urge to wipe his palms on the front of his far-too-expensive trousers. He still didn't understand how one person could have such a powerful effect on him.   
  
As people began filling out, Sherlock heard two women hissing behind him.   
  
"Oh my god. I want to talk to him," the one murmured.   
  
"Don't you know who that is?" the other hissed in reply.   
  
"I'm not going to seduce him!" the first protested.   
  
"That's exactly what you are going to do and you know it," the other huffed. Sherlock could almost picture her crossing her arms in front of her chest.  
  
"Mmm… maybe a little…" Sherlock jolted, feeling a sense of jealousy, sure that they were talking about John until the other spoke.  
  
"Come on, Clara. His fiancée would have you murdered if you tried."  
  
Sherlock nearly gasped. Being mercenary was not one of the traits that came to mind when people thought of Mary. However… that was exactly what they thought of his fiancée. They weren't talking about John, they were talking about him. Dear god. He knew he attracted considerable attention, but was not aware that the interest in him went to this extent.  
  
"But Kitty, it would just be a ship-board fling. If she didn't expect something like that being the possibility then why did she send him by himself?"  
  
Just before Sherlock's heart burst, John came to his rescue. "Hey, Sherlock. Enjoy the show?" he asked as he walked up to Sherlock. Behind him, Sherlock could hear the moans of an opportunity lost and he breathed a sigh of relief.   
  
"Where did you learn to sing like that?" Sherlock asked breathily. "That was the most incredible thing I have ever witnessed," Sherlock said, turning his attention to John.   
  
John blushed. "I just love music." He didn't want to tell Sherlock that he pulled it out of him. That when he sang, he sang for Sherlock and no one else.   
  
"Well, it really shows." Sherlock stood using his knees to brace himself, and used the motion to camouflage the act of wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers.   
  
"You wanna go for drinks?" John blurted out and then turned pink.   
  
Sherlock smiled. "I would love to. Lead on." He briefly touched the small of John's back as John passed him. When he released the smaller man, he could still feel the burning on his fingers from where they touched. Sherlock put his hands behind his back and rubbed his fingers, trying to understand the feeling.   
  
They spent the rest of the night drinking and learning more about each other and John did find out how Sherlock figured out his last name.   
  
Sherlock dragged his finger slowly across the name tag on the uniform John still wore. "It wasn't hard to deduce," Sherlock purred. John felt foolish. He was so use to seeing it there that it never entered his head that the name tag bearing the name "Watson" was still there. He couldn't even remember if his bandmates still had theirs on. Sherlock merely chuckled.   
  
Over the next few days they became inseparable. When John didn't have shows they were often seen walking the deck or sharing a meal or a drink. They hadn't gone back to Sherlock's room together since the first night, both fearing what would happen if they were truly by themselves.   
  
Later John would blame it on the way the moonlight seem to make Sherlock's skin glow in the unearthly light. Sherlock would blame it on John. They were on the deck over looking the water after one of John's very successful shows. They were laughing about something. They never could remember what it was but their eyes met and all laughter died on their lips. John licked his in nervous temper and Sherlock gulped. They took a step forward together so they were nearly chest to chest. John lifted his head just as Sherlock lowered his. John would swear on the fireworks even if Sherlock denied them being possible as their lips touched. But there were no sounds but the lapping of the water hitting the side of the ship.   
  
When they pulled apart, they noticed the deep blush that spread on the other's face after the kiss. Sherlock wanted to run. He had never felt anything like it before and didn't know how to handle the whirling emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. But he was stopped by the gentle touch of the man in front of him.   
  
John saw the panic in Sherlock's eyes and softly stroked the taller man's cheek. He smiled when he saw the tension leave Sherlock's body. Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. He had never been touched with such tenderness. Everyone else seemed to want something from him when they touched him.   
  
John reached his hand around to grasp the back of Sherlock's neck and brought their foreheads together. "You are the most incredible man I have ever had the fortune of meeting."  
  
Sherlock smiled warmly. "That's because you can't meet yourself."   
  
"You are very sexy, you know," John countered.   
  
"Not really. _You_ are sexy. You had every lady and few of the gentlemen in that room _panting_ after you."   
  
John shook his head. Most people overlooked him in favor of Seb. Seb was the one who drew the ladies in night after night, not him. "They're not panting over me, it's Seb."  
  
"That may have been the case before, John. But not now." Sherlock leaned forward and wrapped his arms around John's waist and drew them flush together. John lay his head on Sherlock's shoulder and sighed happily. They delighted in each other's warmth.   
  
After a few minutes being in each others arms, Sherlock spoke. "Do you have a gig tomorrow?" he asked.   
  
"No, not tomorrow, why?" John moved back to look in Sherlock's eyes.   
  
"We'll be stopping in the port town Hyeres tomorrow, and there is someone I'd like you to meet." Sherlock held his breath, hoping that John would agree. He never wanted to take someone to meet his grandmother before. When Irene suggested they visit her, Sherlock told her that because of Grandmére's fragile health, strangers might make her ill.   
  
"It's very important to you, isn't it?" John asked. Sherlock nodded. "Then I will be more than happy to go with you tomorrow. It will be good to get off this bloody boat and see the sights.   
  
Sherlock chuckled. "Thank you, John."


	4. Meeting Grandmére

Sherlock watched nervously as the ship lowered the anchor. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and his left hand tapped out a beat against the railing. John watched the hand with interest. He had seen Mike and Seb do something similar when they were bored or nervous but this wasn't quite like theirs. Bill would tap with both index fingers like they were drumsticks, but Sherlock seemed closer to the guitarist than to the drummer. In his other hand was a small package wrapped in silk fabric.

While Sherlock fretted and John puzzled out his friend's nervous tic, the ship lowered its gangplank to allow the passengers to disembark. Sherlock took a deep breath and led the way to the shore. John followed closely behind, curious, well, about everything really. Sherlock still hadn't told him where they were going or what was in the package he held tightly in his grip. John was also curious about where they were going that would make his tall companion so nervous. 

They spent a nice morning exploring the shops and having coffee in the little cafe. Slowly Sherlock made his way to the far side of town and down a gorgeous pathway. It had roses grown up over to create archways every ten feet or so but the fragrance wasn't overpowering. It was light and peaceful and John loved it. He also loved the hand that was firmly grasped in his. John looked up at Sherlock and smiled. Sherlock returned his smile with a soft, sweet one of his own. 

Sherlock wondered what he had done to meet someone like John. As far as he (and probably anyone who had ever met him) was concerned, the amount of good he'd done in his lifetime couldn't fill a thimble. A plastic one with holes. He sighed happily and looked down at their joined hands, realizing for the first time that he never held hands with Irene. 

Finally they reached their destination. It couldn't be considered a mansion by any stretch of the word but to be sure, no one short of rich could live there. It had white walls and a black roof with flowers gracefully clinging to it. John gasped. 

"Sherlock, it's lovely," John breathed. 

Sherlock smiled. "Wait until you have met the owner." He led them to the veranda that opened from the parlor. He walked through the open glass doors and called out, "Grandmére! Are you home?"

An old woman with wisps of curly silver hair about her tender face came out of one of the adjoining rooms. She put her hands to her lips and let out a soft gasp.

"Sherlock!" she cried as she hurried over to them. She took Sherlock into her arms and held him close. Sherlock dropped John's hand and wrapped his arms around her frail body. "When Mycroft said you'd be coming today, I couldn't believe it. But here you are." She pulled back to inspect him. "And just look at you, so handsome." She pulled him back into a hug and he just held on to her.

Finally they pulled apart. Sherlock led her over to a beautiful wicker chair and sat her down. Grandmére looked up and realized that they were not alone. 

"And just who is this striking young man you've brought me?" she asked her grandson. 

"Grandmére, this is John Watson. John, this is my maternal grandmother, Genevieve Marcantel."

John put on his best charming smile and reached to kiss her hand. "Delighted, ma'am." And was rewarded with a faint blush on her cheeks. 

"Now where did you find this one, Sherlock? So handsome, so charming." She smiled warmly at her grandson. Sherlock blushed. 

"I'm a lounge singer on the cruise, Madame Marcantel," John hastened to fill the silence when Sherlock wasn't sure what to say. 

"Oh, you must have a lovely voice," Grandmére said, "Come into the music room. I would love to hear you." John nodded his consent at Sherlock's silent encouragement. "And maybe we can get Sherlock to play for us in return." She turned to Sherlock and gave him a wink. 

"What do you play?" John asked as they moved to the music room.

Sherlock avoided his question, "Grandmére," he whined. "I haven't played in years."

"Only because you haven't had one to play on," she replied. "Besides, I have no doubt you'll play as if you've never been away." She nodded John's direction and Sherlock blushed again. 

They reached the music room. It was filled with instruments of all kinds. The main piece was a Steinway grand piano, long, regal and black. John wanted to run his fingers over the keys. He wandered around looking at the other instruments. He found a harp, a trumpet, a clarinet, a flute and a violin. He stopped at the violin. It was a gorgeous cherry red, well worn and well loved. 

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" the warm baritone murmured in his ear. "It belonged to my grandfather."

"It's exquisite," John replied, his breath a little harsh. Sherlock ran his fingers over the strings until he stopped just above the bridge and plucked the A-string.

Sherlock laughed. "And it's slightly out of tune." Behind him his grandmother huffed.

"So do something about it," she admonished. Sherlock nodded and set down his package. He picked up the bow first, running rosin along its strings. 

"The bow came with the violin but the hair has been replaced many times since then," Sherlock explained and then he tightened bow.

He put the rosin back in the case and picked up the violin. He ran the bow across each of the strings, listening for how far they were out of tune. After a few minutes of tweaking, Sherlock slid the bow over the strings and seemed pleased with the result. Then he began to play a tune. It was warm and sweet and John began to sway with the music. He closed his eyes and just focused on the sound emitting from the instrument. 

Sherlock, on the other hand, couldn't take his eyes off his companion. His eyes followed every move that John made. Sherlock's breath caught in his throat, his heart raced and sweat raised on his brow. He forced himself to end the song. He put the violin back in its case and loosened the bow before setting it beside its mate. 

"That was… amazing. Just incredible, Sherlock," John exclaimed. 

"Yes, he is incredible," Grandmére said stiffly. She clearly thought he had wasted his talents. 

Sherlock picked up his package and handed it to her. She slid off the silk fabric which turned out to be the most beautiful shawl John had ever seen. Sherlock took it from her and draped it over her shoulders as she looked down at what the shawl had been wrapping. 

Grandmére brought a hand to her lips and gasped. "Oh Sherlock! My Jean!" 

"The shawl is from Mycroft, the painting is from me."

"Well, of course the painting is from you, you silly child! It's perfect. The way you captured his eyes, like the deepest ocean blue on a cloudless day. So marvelous." 

John's curiosity got the better of him and he peered over her shoulder. On the small canvas was an oil painting of an older gentleman. He had Sherlock's curls, though his were the color of varnished silver; his eyes held the same intensity, but were a much darker blue. Like Grandmére described exactly. 

"He was handsome," John said, breaking the silence. 

"That he was," Grandmére agreed. "The best and greatest man I had ever met. We met in the Resistance, you know."

John looked up sharply, "Really? You were in the French Resistance?"

"It's not as sexy or as exciting as it sounds, believe me," she said. 

John laughed. "I was in the army, ma'am. Believe me, I understand. It's a lot of waiting followed by short burst of terrifying activity." 

She smile fondly. "Sherlock, would you be a dear and get out some of the old pictures of Jean and me? I think your friend here would be interested in a couple of them."

Sherlock nodded and bent to kiss her, whispering in her ear, "I know you're just trying to get rid of me to have him to yourself awhile." She swatted at him and he pranced backwards laughing. Once he was gone Grandmére turned to John.

"Is this where I get the third degree, ma'am?" John asked, laughter dancing behind his eyes. 

She laughed out loud. "I suppose. My grandson is fragile soul. He would like the world to believe otherwise, but then the world has not been kind to him. He's so brilliant. Not just at the violin and painting but so intelligent. He graduated shortly before his father succumbed to the bottle. It took him a year to get enough to pay for the fee to Oxford. But he was still a boy in a man's world and they devoured him. He has spent his life trying to come back from that." 

"I'm not going to hurt him," John told her defensively. 

"You may not mean to, but things that would roll off the average person's back would crush my grandson. Mycroft is a much stronger soul, but even he learned to hide his heart."

"I love your grandson. He is the most amazing man I've ever met."

"And yet you wear the ring of another," she replied. 

"So does he. Neither one of us was expecting this. Especially considering we are both engaged to women. But there was this instant connection; this spark on meeting that has lit a fire in both of us."

"Take care of him, John. He needs someone like you. Not like that trollop he's engaged to. Yes, I've heard of her. She doesn't love him. She's after this place." 

John cocked his head to the side. "I'm not sure I understand." 

"When I die, Sherlock inherits this place. As well as small amount of money for the upkeep. Mycroft gets the bulk of the money. She intends to turn it into a tourist hotspot."

"Dear god, why?"

"She likes power. And the prestige this place will bring her will give her just that. She's been trying to break into France for years, and this will give her that in.

"Look after him. God knows what trouble he'll get into otherwise."

Just then Sherlock walked in, his hair covered in dust, holding a leather bound album. John smiled at his state and Sherlock blushed. 

"Come here, you git." Sherlock shuffled over to John and closed his eyes, reveling in the sensation of John getting the dust from his curls. "There, that's better." 

Grandmére smiled at the affection John was showing her grandson. Heavens knew that he didn't get enough of that growing up. 

They moved to the couch in the sitting room. Sherlock perched on the arm while John sat next to it with the album on his lap and Grandmére on his left. They looked through the pictures and Madam Marcantel told the stories behind them. They had a good laugh over a couple of the pictures that involved Jean. It seemed he had a knack of getting into the worst scrapes. 

John spotted one with Jean wearing the most gorgeous coat. "He had good taste. That is lovely." 

She smiled. "I still have it." John looked up at her. "It should be in the hall closet, if you want to see it." John handed her the album and was down the hall before Sherlock and Grandmére could blink. They laughed as they watched John swing open the door. 

"You keep this one, Sher," Grandmére said, turning to her grandson. "He's a good one." 

"You don't mind that it's not a girl?" Sherlock asked her.

"Love doesn't care about gender, love. He loves you and will do anything for you. That's all that matters to me." 

Sherlock nodded. From the hall they heard a gasp and then John came running back in.

He was looking down at what was in his hands and then he looked up at them. He looked back at the black pea coat he held lovingly. Sherlock smiled at the look of pure joy on John's face. 

"It's in beautiful condition, ma'am."

"Try it on, John," Sherlock told him. John looked to Grandmére and she nodded. He slipped on and it fit like a glove. He ran his hand over the sleeve and breathed a sigh. He took it off and laid it on the couch.

"We should get going, Sherlock, it's getting late."

"Oh, and I never got to hear you sing," Grandmére pouted. 

"I'll send you a recording," John promised. She nodded and kissed each of them goodbye. 

They strolled back through the archways hand in hand and John placed his head on Sherlock's shoulder. 

"Thank you for the lovely day, Sherlock," he whispered. 

"Thank you for making it so lovely," Sherlock returned. They stopped just before they reached the town. Sherlock reached down and pressed his lips to John's. John's eyes fluttered closed and he breathed in his lover's scent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having a violinist who worked at violin shop for a few years as husband is a great resource when talking about Sherlock's violin and his playing. Any errors in that area are mine and mine alone.


	5. Trying to Fight It

John was giddy. Sherlock had taken him to meet the one person in his life that he actually cared about. According to his love, Irene hadn't even met Grandmére. John was feeling special beyond belief. He was also starting to realize a very important fact. That tall dark lunatic was taking up a rather large part of his heart. He hadn't thought about Mary once since the dark-haired man walked into the lounge.   
  
Well, bar the odd moments like this one, anyway. When he thought about how much he hadn't thought about her. She was a nice, sweet girl. There was no doubt about that and there was some part of him that still loved her. But when he was with Sherlock he felt free. Like if he spread his arms far enough he could fly.   
  
When he wasn't with his band, every waking moment was spent in the company of the taller man. He knew that he should try and hide his relationship with Sherlock but he couldn't bring himself to.   
  
John sighed as he rolled over on his bed to look up at the ceiling. Of course there was no way he could explain that to anyone else, they wouldn't understand. They would say that it was just a fling. That he would get over it once he got off the confines of the ship and back with Mary. Yet somehow he couldn't imagine a life without Sherlock now.   
  
Plus there was Seb. Seb had disapproved of the tall playboy. That's what Sherlock's reputation said anyway. But John couldn't see it. Maybe he acted differently around him. It was a strange sense of protectiveness of John that caused Seb not like Sherlock. He thought that because Mary and John were good people that they should be on the cover of magazines and in the papers, the way Sherlock and Irene were. But he never seemed to realize that they stayed out of the public light on purpose.   
  
John sighed. He was really getting nowhere. He got up and pulled on his robe. He put on his slippers and snuck out of the room he shared with Mike. He moved through the shadows to the deck. He gripped the rails with white-knuckled fists and breathed in the sea air.   
  
He closed his eyes and allowed all his thoughts to drift away. John knew he would have to deal with them sooner rather than later but right now all he wanted to focus on was the incredible day he'd had.   
  
Once he had calmed enough to open his eyes, he noticed that Sherlock had joined him. Unlike John, he was still dressed.   
  
***  
  
Sherlock took another shot of vodka and promptly threw the glass against the wall. As it shattered, Sherlock sank to the ground, his hands covering his face. He knew he should walk away. Just tell John it was a fling and didn't mean a thing. Oh dear god, he was rhyming! He flopped on his side and banged his head on the floor in frustration.   
  
He had obligations. To his family, to himself, to Irene. But he couldn't lie to John, he just couldn't. The past week did mean something. A world of somethings. It was like the weight of the world was lifted off his shoulders. He felt like Atlas freed.   
  
But he knew that part was an illusion. He only felt freed. It did not mean that he was truly liberated. His family…fuck his family. His family was only Mycroft and since when did he listen to that prat anyway? He didn't even know why he was doing it now. Why couldn't Mycroft marry for money? He had the pick of the crop after all. Politicians, nobles, and dignitaries were always throwing their nubile young men and women at his feet.   
  
Clearly all he had to do was pick one that was well off enough, pretty enough, of the right age of his interest and ta-da! money problems solved. Why was it so imperative that Sherlock be the one to get married? Maybe it was something that Irene had over the elder Holmes or better yet over Mycroft's boss, the Prime Minister. That would make sense.   
  
Guarantee Sherlock makes it to the altar and whatever she had over Mycroft would vanish for good. Sherlock gripped his hair and clenched his teeth. He was frustrated and angry. He need to get out.  
  
He made his way to the deck and smiled when he saw John in his pajamas with his eyes closed.   
  
***  
  
Sherlock smiled at John, "We need to stopping meeting like this," he said, gliding his hand down from John's elbow to wrist before taking his hand. Sherlock gave it a light squeeze before letting go. John smiled up at him.   
  
"It always seems like we're of the same mind."   
  
Sherlock's smile turned into a grin. "So it appears." He turned to face the sea and the smile was wiped from his face as the emotions swirling his head took ahold of his heart. "What are we doing, John?" Sherlock thought he had decided to be with the smaller man but that niggling doubt refused to let go.   
  
John turned to the surging sea before them as he gave it some thought. He sighed. "I don't know, Sherlock. It all seems surreal. We have only known each other for a few days, but it feels like forever."   
  
Sherlock turned to look down at him and nodded. It did seem that way.   
  
"Perhaps we need to step back a bit so we don't cause a scandal onboard, yeah?" John continued. He didn't want to, but in the age of technology a simple photo from a phone could cause the most amount of chaos imaginable.   
  
"I believe I can be discreet." Sherlock replied. John laughed. He couldn't picture his friend being anything other than over the top. Sherlock just smiled in response.   
  
***  
  
They tried to be discreet at dinner. But somehow they ended up in booths that shared a back. Around them, Sherlock could see the other patron trying to hide their smiles and snickers behind hands, fans, and napkins.   
  
He sighed as behind him John chuckled. John leaned back so that his head was next Sherlock's.  
  
He whispered in Sherlock's ear, "I don't think they're fooled." Sherlock growled in disgust and John chuckled and returned to his dinner.   
  
They tried to be discreet at John's band's gig that night.   
  
They had started off well. Sherlock had foregone his usual place, front and center, and had moved to a table further towards the back. He was so far back he was almost in the shadows. John forced himself to keep his eyes focused on the area barely beyond the stage. To not look out into the audience. His voice swelled and he became lost in the music.   
  
And yet by the middle of the set, Sherlock had moved from the shadows to the center pillar. He leaned against it with his arms crossed in front of his chest as he watched John croon. He didn't even recall standing up.   
  
John forgot to keep his eyes from roaming the audience. As his eyes grazed the crowd, he spotted Sherlock leaning against the same pillar where he had first sighted the tall, dark-haired man on their first day of the cruise. John's voice took on an exotic feel as he began singing to Sherlock.   
  
The older ladies among the spectators began to giggle and twitter behind their hand fans, the younger ladies awed and oohed about how romantic it was. The men, if they had any sort of reaction at all, chuckled at how stupid the two men were behaving. Sherlock rolled his eyes in exasperation.   
  
They tried to avoid each other as they went their separate ways for the night but inevitably where one was the other would appear as if called. Once they even literally bumped into each other as they strolled the deck. The other cruise goers laughed outright at the sight.   
  
This went on for a couple of days before finally they just gave up. The only people they were fooling were themselves. They decided to live up the final few days on the ship, laughing and giggling like children.   
  
Too soon it was their last night; tomorrow they would return to the lives they lived before they met. Sherlock wasn't sure he could go back to that hollow existence. In these few short days he had learned more about himself then he learned the whole the thirty years he had been alive.   
  
Or maybe John had changed him. He dabbled in science a bit and knew that change was suppose to take a long time. In nature it took eons. In people it often took years. But, in the short time since knowing the shorter man, Sherlock had a new lease on life.   
  
He pulled John close to him as they looked out over the bow of the ship. Sherlock didn't want to believe that this was anything but real. He whispered into John's hair, "This can't be a fling. I won't let it become a fond memory of a shipboard dalliance. It means more than that."  
  
John nodded into Sherlock's chest and he wrapped his arms around his lover's thin waist. "So what do we do?"  
  
Sherlock's crystalline eyes lit up as an idea hit him. "What's your favorite place in London?" he asked suddenly into the painful silence.   
  
John looked up curiously. "The Tower of London, I guess. Why?"  
  
Sherlock whirled him around, giddy. "That's as good a place as any."  
  
John laughed. "What's as good a place as any? What are you thinking, you mad man?"  
  
"Let's meet there in six months. If we still feel the same after all that time, that means that this was meant to be. We'll meet at the top of the Tower of London in a half a year and declare to the whole world that we are one."  
  
John laughed again. "What's with the six months, Sherlock? Why not a year?" He was getting a little dizzy from being swung around and he stumbled to a stop.   
  
Sherlock looked down and to the left as he muttered, "Your wedding is in seven months and mine is in eight…."  
  
John put his hand on Sherlock's cheek and brought the taller man's face up to meet his. "Oh, Sherlock. Alright. We'll meet in six months." John squeezed Sherlock tight with his free arm.   
  
The dark-haired man sighed, "I know I will never change how I feel about you. You have taught me that I could have hopes and dreams, that I didn't have to live the life of a lamb knowing he was meant for the slaughter."   
  
John tilted his head up and caught Sherlock's lips with his own. "That was the most beautiful thing I've ever heard. Thank you, Sherlock. I love you so much."  
  
The next morning dawned bright and glistened serenely on the English Channel. Sherlock cursed it with all his heart. How dare the sun shine on the day he parted with John.   
  
"You have my number, right?" John asked for what was probably the fifteenth time since they awoke.  
  
"Yes, John. I'll keep in touch. I promise," Sherlock murmured.  
  
They shared one last kiss and they walked to the deck. As the gangplank was lowered they shared a parting glance. They went their separate ways and plastered fake smiles on their faces. They walked down to where their fiancées were waiting. John swept Mary up in a tight embrace and kissed her soundly eliciting the whistles and cat calls of his bandmates.   
  
Sherlock's greeting was more subdued but more sultry. He slipped one hand around her waist and dipped her back to claim her lips. The crowd around them erupted in cheers.  
  
Both men whispered into their fiancée's ear.  
  
"We need to talk."


	6. The Reaction

Once John was in the back of the limo, he dropped all pretenses with Mary. He knew he couldn't fool her anyway. He put his head in his hands and ran his fingers over his face. Mary put her hand on his back and rubbed circles into it until John seemed ready to talk.  
  
"I'm not sure how to say this, Mary. I do love you, you know that, right?"  
  
Mary continued to rub circles on his back, "Of course I do, John. There is no doubt about that. There will never be any doubt. Come on, love, tell me what's wrong. I want to help you. You know I do. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me."  
  
That made John just want to cry. He put his arms around her and sobbed.  
  
"Oh, sweetheart. You met someone else, didn't you?" John could only nod into her neck. "So tell me about her." John laughed mirthlessly, lifting his head off her shoulder.  
  
"For starters -- not a her," he said as he pulled away. She raised an eyebrow. "I'm not gay." She raised both eyebrows. "I'm not."  
  
"Honey, you were never straight either." John opened his mouth to hotly deny that claim but she place a finger over his lips to silence him. "Before we got together I had seen you check out men and women alike. Granted there were way more women than men but there had been a few. And there is nothing wrong with that, John. Nothing at all." She stopped for a moment and then started to giggle.  
  
"What?" John asked, a scowl forming deep on his brow.  
  
"You never did have a type of woman. There were all sorts. Blondes, red-heads, brunettes, even a raven-haired beauty or too. Tall, short, and everything in between. Body types would vary too, but not by much. But your men, love? All tall, dark, and handsome."  
  
"Oh god."  
  
Mary laughed. "That's what this one looks like, doesn't he?" John nodded. "Thought so. So what makes you think this wasn't just a shipboard fling?"  
  
John ran a nervous hand through his hair. "I have never met anyone like him. He's brilliant and sincere. Everyone thinks he's cold and closed off but it's not true. Not with me. Not ever. He's just had such a rough life and he doesn't want to get hurt. And when he walks in the room everything around him just fades away."  
  
"So who is this Casanova, eh?"  
  
John winced. "Sherlock Holmes."  
  
Mary blinked a couple times. "You do realize that this is a PR nightmare? Were you seen doing anything that we might have to clean up?"  
  
"Seen? Yes. Photographed? No. You know the saying, 'Pics or it didn't happen'? Well, we made sure there were no pics."  
  
"Are you sure?" she pressed.  
  
"As sure as we could be. We weren't idiots. Though maybe one too many dinners on the veranda."  
  
"Oh, John! You didn't kiss at any time during these dinners, touch hands or do anything that might be construed as romantic, did you?"  
  
"Uh…not that I'm aware of. We even tried to avoid each other for a couple days. Didn't work out very well."  
  
"What happened?"  
  
"Um…well…we kept showing up in the same places. Entirely by accident. I don't believe in fate…"  
  
"But it became hard to ignore?"  
  
John sighed. "Pretty much."  
  
Mary sighed, too. "What do you want to do?"  
  
"Well, we have a plan. In case that it was just a silly shipboard romance, we are going ahead with our respective weddings and if we feel the same about the other in six months we'll meet at the top of the Tower of London."  
  
"It's a good plan. Keep the paparazzi off the scent until it's too late." John nodded. "You know I would do anything for you, John, so I'm going to help in this, too. Now it's time for some news of my own. I spoke to father and convinced him to let you keep the band. Mike, Seb, and Bill all know. I wanted to break the news to you myself."  
  
John cried out in joy and wrapped his arms around her again. "You are the best, Mary."  
  
"And yet you don't want to marry me," she teased. John sighed and looked down unhappily.  
  
"Give me six months and then we'll see."  
  
Mary nodded soberly. It would be a waiting game but judging from the look on John's face when he talked about Sherlock, John would definitely be waiting at the London Tower in six months. Whether or not Sherlock would be as well…she sincerely hoped for John's sake that he would be.

***

Sherlock tried to get a word in edgewise on the trip home but Irene must have sensed the distressing note in his voice and did everything she could to stall what would be an unpleasant conversation. Though in hindsight she should have talked to him to avoid what happened next.  
  
They got out of the car and were bombarded by the press. Things were going well until a reporter asked, "So Sherlock, what are you going to be doing while your fiancée takes the Paris fashion world by storm?"  
  
Irene opened her mouth to say something inane when Sherlock cut her off. "In my youth I dabbled as a painter. I was in fact quite good. So starting this week, I will be taking up the brush and with any luck taking the London art scene as you put it 'by storm'."  
  
That prompted a slew of questions about why and what his plans were. Sherlock explained that while he was on the cruise he had visited his ailing grandmother and she inspired him to start it up again. It being a sympathetic story, all Irene could do was sit and fume as Sherlock effectively took over the interview with the press.  
  
Once they had made it through and up to her penthouse suite, she began her temper tantrum in earnest.  
  
"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing? Painting? What's next, busking on the god damn street with your fucking violin?" she screamed at him. Before she could open her mouth again, Sherlock's brother Mycroft slipped into the living room of the suite.  
  
"I'd tell you to go away, Mycroft, but you were always going to be the third person in this marriage anyway. Plus it gives me the pleasure of informing the both of you at once."  
  
Mycroft merely tapped his fingers on his umbrella but Irene on the other hand…"You have _more_ news to drop on me?" Irene's voice was beginning to crack from the barely-contained rage.  
  
Sherlock smirked. "Oh yes," he purred. "You see, another thing happened while on the cruise. I fell in love." Both of them displayed shock in their own way. Irene's jaw dropped and she made a half-strangled noise in the back of her throat. Mycroft's dainty eyebrow raised a fraction, not far enough that anyone outside of this room would notice, but enough that Sherlock noticed it, and Irene would have had she been looking at the politician.  
  
"Don't make me laugh, Sherlock. You aren't capable of such things," Irene scoffed.  
  
"Even I find it hard to believe brother dear," Mycroft said.  
  
"Well, it's true. Apparently you had been throwing the wrong sort at me all along."  
  
Irene's eyes narrowed. "And what the hell is that suppose to mean?" she spat.  
  
"It means, Miss Adler," Mycroft said, his voice smooth and cold like ice, "he is telling us he's gay."  
  
"What?" Irene screamed rounding on the elder Holmes.  
  
"My brother is spot on as usual, Irene." Mycroft nodded in response to Sherlock's admission. "I fell in love with a man. He is positively _lovely_ , too," Sherlock purred.  
  
Irene turned back to Sherlock; her face was starting to turn purple from rage.  
  
"There's something else, isn't there, Sherlock?" Mycroft pressed leaning forward.  
  
Sherlock's grin split his face. "Oh yes. Can you name the male part in the second biggest wedding of the year?"  
  
Irene's face turned from rage to confusion. "There's another wedding that is almost as anticipated as ours?"  
  
Mycroft rolled his eyes. Of course Irene was too self-centered to notice that other people were interested in something or someone other than herself. "Brother, please tell me you are joking? John Watson? Really?"  
  
Irene pulled out her phone and was searching the internet looking for this guy that her fiancé claimed had stolen his heart.  
  
"Oh yes. It could cause quite the scandal, don't you think?" Sherlock smirked.  
  
" _Could_?" Irene sputtered. "It most certainly will. My god, what _were_ you thinking?"  
  
"I highly doubt he was thinking at all, Miss Adler."  
  
She turned to Mycroft. "You are going to fix this! And you are going to fix this now!"  
  
"I haven't even told you the best part yet," Sherlock informed them with a sly grin and then told them about John and his plan.  
  
"Well, thank god you were actually thinking with your heads instead of other parts of your anatomy."  
  
"What? Their cocks?" Irene scoffed.  
  
"Well, I was thinking more of their hearts but I suppose that would be just as apt."  
  
"Not really," Sherlock muttered. They both turned to look at the curly-haired man.  
  
"You mean to honestly tell me you didn't have sex?" Irene scandalized.  
  
"Of course not. We _were_ trying to discreet."  
  
Mycroft threw his arms in the air. "Thank goodness for small favors. That's one thing we don't have to worry about the press getting ahold of. If they do catch the story of you and John being more than friends on the boat we can spin it to a minor fling."  
  
"Until six months from now, that is," Sherlock said.  
  
"Yes, yes. But you don't know if he'll be there and until we know for sure, that is how we will spin it."  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine," he huffed.  
  
"Thank god you are being sensible in all this," Mycroft sighed.  
  
" _Sensible_?" Irene screamed. "How the hell is this sensible? Did you even think about Mycroft or me, Sherlock? Hm? Did you?"  
  
"Of course I did."  
  
"Sherlock…." Mycroft warned. But Sherlock was never one for avoiding a potential jab.  
  
"Mycroft can marry you."  
  
Mycroft ran his fingers through his hair. "We talked about this, Sherlock."  
  
" _No._ _You_ talked about it. I didn't have a say in the matter. But now I don't care. The Holmes name can rot. In fact when I marry John, I'll take his name and since Mycroft isn't too keen about stepping up to the paddock, as it were, the Holmes name will die out and the world would be a better place for all."  
  
"You can't be serious?" Irene shrilled. "You fix this, Mycroft, or…" she waved her phone to illustrate her point.  
  
Sherlock scoffed. "Political scandals happen all the time, it's nothing new. No one cares anymore. You're more likely to hear about a puppy stuck in a tree, than about some politician doing something somewhere he shouldn't with someone he shouldn't."  
  
Mycroft chuckled. "He has a point, dear. Besides, a lot can happen in six months."  
  



	7. Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies. I posted chapter six and seven as chapter six. So I'm fixing it and giving you chapter eight, too. Because that cliffhanger is brutal enough without me mucking it up further.

  
Irene was more than a little upset when he turned his suite into a painter's studio. Most of the furniture was covered with large white sheets, leaving only a small backless chair and canvases strewn over every available surface. Paints and brushes littered whatever surfaces the canvases had left them.

In the middle of this chaos was the artist himself. His curls plastered to his head in odd places from either sweat or paint from where he forgot he had a paint brush in his hand when he moved to brush hair out of his face.

 _How would you feel if I cut my hair really short?_ \- SH

 _How short are we talking about here_ \- JW

 _As close as I can get it without shave the damn stuff off entirely_. - SH

 _It's getting in your eyes again isn't it?_ \- JW

 _Yes._ \- SH

Sorry sweetheart I love your silky locks, you have to keep them. Or if you do cut them do it with enough time for them to grow back when I see you again - JW

Sherlock sighed. He knew that John loved his hair, of course, so the possibility of John allowing him to cut it was relatively slim.

 _You win. I will not cut my hair, just for you_. - SH

 _Good_. -JW

Sherlock chuckled. They often had conversations like this as he painted. Lestrade had taken it upon himself to promote Sherlock's art work. So far there hadn't been much interest, but they were earnest in their endeavors.

"You know, I can't sell blank canvases. You actually have to paint something."

Sherlock looked up to see his former driver, now agent, leaning against the door frame with his arms and feet crossed. Sherlock didn't even bother wiping the silly grin off his face.

"Just gaining inspiration, Lestrade," Sherlock put his phone away and bent to pick up his paint brush.

"I'd believe that if you actually painted John. Which you don't," Lestrade said straightening up and walking over to look over Sherlock's shoulder at the painting. It was a landscape overlooking the side of the ship to the cliffs of Dover.

"Very lovely, I'm sure."

Sherlock turned to look over his shoulder at his friend. "But?"

Lestrade sighed. "The landscapes just aren't selling, Sherlock."

"We just need an art show or gallery to express interest. Get the word out," Sherlock huffed as he turned back to put the finishing touches on the water.

Lestrade ran his fingers through his hair. "No one is biting. They're all waiting to see if you're going to get married to Miss Adler before they'll even consider looking at your work."

Sherlock whirled around on his stool to face the older man. "What does that mean _exactly_?"

"It means that they want to see whether or not you'll use her influence to make it in the art world."

Sherlock pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to fight the headache this conversation was bringing. "So they are more interested in the poor starving genius nonsense. I suppose it is better than the namby-pamby boy toy playing at being an artist."

Lestrade huffed another sigh. "Pretty much."

The dark-haired man growled in frustration. "If only Mycroft would allow me to announce that we are calling it quits this wouldn't be a problem. But no. He is still hedging his bets that one of us will suddenly have a crisis of conscience and go back to our fiancée calling this whole Tower of London thing off."

"You do understand why, don't you?" Lestrade asked him.

Sherlock growled and jumped up pacing and pulling at his hair. "It's ridiculous!" he snapped.

"It's really not," the grey-haired man huffed, crossing his arms in from of his chest.

"Just because I had issues in the past--"

Lestrade held up a hand to stop him. "You know that's not what this is about. It's about the fact that you left for two weeks on a cruise and you suddenly come back , stars in your eyes, like this bloke's gone and hung the moon." Sherlock glared at him. "You know what I mean, Sherlock. It's not like you and you know it."

The younger man sighed and slumped into one of the covered couches. He looked up at his friend, "If you could meet him…." Sherlock trailed off hopelessly.

"I know, mate. I know," Lestrade strolled over and placed his hand on the young artist's shoulder. "I'm sure everything will turn out for the best." Sherlock nodded and the former driver gave the shoulder a squeeze before he walked out of the room.

The next few months flew by for Sherlock. He painted landscapes, portraits, and still-lifes. His work was rather good, but still the art community held back as though they sensed trouble in paradise.

Finally the day of the arranged meeting came. Due to much begging, cajoling, and even out-and-out threats (on Irene's part) their friends convinced the two lovers to avoid even so much as a text during the final month. According to Sherlock, it was a last-ditch effort on their friends' part to make them see sense.

Lestrade drove him to the Tower of London for old times' sake. He sat in the back of the black sedan, tapping his fingers nervously. Sherlock was wound tighter than a spring by the time they arrived.

"Did you want me to wait for you?" the former driver asked as he held open the door for the young painter.

Sherlock blushed and replied, "No," in a small voice. Lestrade laughed and gave the young man a pat on the back before sliding back into the car and driving off.

The dark-haired young painter watched nervously as his friend pulled out of sight. He took a deep breath and made his way to the White Tower where he told John to meet him. He pulled his coat tightly around him and settled down to wait. To wait for the man who would be the love of his life.

***

John was excited to get the band back together. He almost felt a sense of pride he was sticking it to his would-be father-in-law. The Northumberland Fusiliers rode again. And while they weren't well known by any stretch of the imagination, they were booking better gigs. But they were never in it to be well known or for the money, they were in it for the music. Of course it could have been that Mary made herself their manager.

Seb became more bitter about the situation between Mary and John. And it all came to a head after a gig at their local pub.

They were packing up their instruments and sound equipment when John got a text that made him laugh. Seb snarled and marched up to Mary.

"Doesn't that bother you?" he snapped pointing to John.

"What? That he's laughing at a text?" Mary was honestly confused.

"No," he huffed. "That he is flirting with another woman's fiancée? That he cheated on you? That he took the best thing in his life and threw it all away on that slut's boy toy?" Seb's voice dropped to an angry hiss.

"How do you know it's Sherlock?" she asked, changing the subject. "John has other friends, plus there's Harry. It could be her."

Seb scoffed. "He only smiles like that for one person. That used to be you, now it's Sherlock. Why the hell doesn't it bother you?"

Mary crossed her arms. "What's really bothering you, Seb?" she asked. "Is it the fact that he's from a rich family or used to be? That he's 'posh'? Or is it because he's a bloke?"

Seb reeled as if he had been slapped. "I'm not homophobic. I'm not!"

"So what is it, Seb? Do you just not want him to be happy?"

"Of course, I want to him to be happy. You know I do!"

"So why are you giving him grief over this?"

Seb clenched his fists and his jaw tightly. "Because he's throwing away the perfect girl for some gilded golden boy," he gritted through his teeth. Seb looked down when he realized what he said.

Mary smirked. "So you think I'm perfect?"

Seb blushed. "You know you are. You're smart and pretty. With the patience of saint. Cool-headed and even-tempered. You having money is just icing on the cake, really."

She laughed. "Well, thank you. I do have flaws. Jealousy being the chief among them."

He threw his arms in the air, "That's what I'm talking about! Why aren't you jealous of Sherlock?"

Mary sighed. "Because before I found out about Sherlock, I realized something about John. As much as I love him and he loves me, there was always a part of him that was held back. That I was place-holder for the love of his life. And I can tell that's Sherlock. He's happy with me. He's incandescent with Sherlock. When he gets a text from him, he lights up. You know; you've seen it, too. We would have merely been happy."

"Wouldn't that have been enough?" Seb asked.

"Sure. If he hadn't met Sherlock. You've seen them together, you tell me. How do they look?"

He sighed in defeat. "Like two halves made whole."

"I cannot feel jealous and you shouldn't be either."

Seb jumped when he felt a hand clasp his shoulder. He looked down to see John, who had moved closer to eavesdrop.

"I appreciate you looking out for Mary and me. I really do. But we're happy just being friends, Seb. Everything will work out in the end. It always does," John told him. Seb nodded. There was just no convincing these two. He smiled and went back to helping Mike and Bill, leaving the two of them alone.

"Despite what he thinks," John said, filling the silence, "I do feel bad."

Mary laughed. "I know you do, John. But you shouldn't be made to feel guilty for something you have no control over. You can't help who you love, after all. There is no word to describe how happy you look when you get a text or call from him."

John blushed, "I know." He ran his fingers through his hair. "Why haven't we announced the break-up yet? The closer to the wedding we announce our break up, the bigger the blowup in the press be!" His voice rose to near panic levels.

"John, John! It'll be okay. But if it makes you feel any better, we'll announce a postponement. Tell them we decided not to rush into marriage, especially with other high-profile wedding happening later this year."

John sighed. It wasn't the cancelation he wanted, but it'd do. "I guess that works."

The announcement in the press was very well received. Well, by everyone but Nigel Morstan. He was livid, but as Mary had pointed out, he wasn't the signing the checks, she was. So he silently seethed.

Finally the big day arrived for John and he was brimming over with excitement that he was finally going to see Sherlock again. Unfortunately he picked the slowest cabbie in London. And then because of the snail's pace they took through the city, they got stuck in rush hour traffic on the London Bridge.

John was on his wit's end. He had finally had enough and got out. He threw £50 at the cabbie and yelled, "Thanks for nothing!" He dashed out into traffic, weaving through the cabs, buses, and cars, fighting his way toward the Tower of London.

Suddenly there was the screeching of tires, the crunching of metal, and the thud of a body hitting the pavement.


	8. The Painter's Heart and Soul

Sherlock waited. He even paid the guard to keep the White Tower open an extra hour but still there was no sign of John. Sherlock began to pace. Darkness fell and still there was no sign of John. Sherlock decided that he had had enough and to hell with the no-texting rule. It was something he had never wanted in the first place.  
  
 _Where are you?_ \- SH  
  
 _John?_ \- SH  
  
 _What happened?_ \- SH  
  
 _Please answer me_. - SH  
  
 _Please!_ \- SH  
  
 _My heart is breaking, John. Please, tell me what I did wrong._ \- SH  
  
Finally the guard had to throw Sherlock out. He trudged out into the courtyard and gazed up to the White Tower where he had waited all night. A single tear dripped silently down his pale cheek. In a fit of pique he walked to the Thames and chucked his mobile into the river. He sank to his knees and put his face into his hands.   
  
He didn't know how long he sat there sobbing as though his very heart would break before a black sedan pulled along side him.  
  
"Sherlock?" Lestrade called as he got out of driver's side.  
  
The younger man raised his tear-stained face and Lestrade felt his heart shatter at the sight.  
  
"What the hell happened to your phone? I've been trying to call since Mycroft told me you were out here and in desperate need of a pick up. Something about CCTV or something," Lestrade babbled, as he trotted over to the painter.  
  
Sherlock waved vaguely in the direction of the river.   
  
"Oh." Lestrade blinked and looked out toward the dark mass of the Thames. He shook his head and then moved to help the dark-haired man to his feet. "Come on, Sherlock. Let's get you home."  
  
Sherlock nodded and allowed his friend to pull him up.  
  
Lestrade gently led the way to the car and placed him carefully into the car. All the way home he kept glancing in his rearview mirror to the shattered man in his backseat. Half way there Sherlock fell asleep, his body finally giving in to the exhaustion caused by his emotional distress. Lestrade called ahead to have people open the doors for him as he carried his friend up to the flat he shared with Irene.  
  
The former driver was grateful the lady of the house was gone for the weekend, otherwise she probably would have woken her ex-fiancé with her recriminations. He placed him on the couch in the living room and put a blanket over him.   
  
The next morning, Sherlock awoke to voices.  
  
"What are we going to tell people? He can't stay here. Irene will throw a fit," the first voice asked. It sounded like Lestrade.   
  
"We will say that he is sick and convalescing at my house, as he does not want to burden his fiancée or get her sick as well," the second voice replied. And Sherlock would have known the oily tones of his brother anywhere.  
  
"Are you going to try and find out what happened to John?" Lestrade asked and Sherlock perked up his ears in hope.  
  
"It wouldn't do any good. Regardless the reason, the fallout is going to be massive."  
  
Sherlock groaned. He should have known better than to rely on his brother. As far as Mycroft was concerned, this whole thing was a disaster.   
  
They stopped talking and turned toward the sofa on which Sherlock lay.   
  
"Ah brother, good to see you awake. I have taken the liberty in moving all your things to my place for the time being. Hopefully, this will all blow over and you can move back here. The wedding--"  
  
Sherlock shot straight up. "The _wedding_ , dear brother, is _never_ going to happen, you hear me?"  
  
"But Sherlock, he didn't show," Mycroft reasoned.   
  
Sherlock stood up and got in his brother's face. "It doesn't matter. The only person I ever intend to marry is John. I don't care." He stomped off and out the front door, which he slammed behind him.   
  
They were moving things into Lestrade's flat, Sherlock not having been able to stand his brother's place for longer than a week, when Irene showed up and they had their very public break up. She insulted him, his family, John; even Lestrade felt her wrath. Sherlock told her that she was a money-grubbing, soulless whore and he would make sure she didn't get his grandmother's estate if it was the last thing he did.  
  
All of Sherlock's paintings took on a darker tone. All, except one. Upon hearing his grandmother had finally passed on and sent him the coat John had greatly admired, he sat and painted John in it. His blond hair like gold, his blue eyes like the ocean, and his smile like the sun.   
  
It was the thing that drew Mrs. Hudson, of the Baker Street Gallery, to his collection. She loved it so much that she wanted to buy it for herself, but Sherlock refused. He couldn't sell it, not to her.   
  
She smiled her understanding and picked the best from both his John period, as she called it, and his dark period. And in the middle of the two periods, was John's portrait. Building the bridge between to them.  
  
His art was getting rave reviews, but there weren't a lot people buying. He was okay with that right now. He couldn't part with them, it hurt too much to think about. But he continued to let Lestrade try. All but John's portrait.   
  
One day while he was at the gallery, Sherlock happened to overhear a couple of the patrons talking.    
  
"You really have to see this band, Sarah. They are amazing," the young woman enthused to her friend.   
  
"If they're so amazing, then why I haven't heard of them, Molly?" Sarah asked.   
  
"Well, they are a bit of a mouthful. Northumberland Fusiliers," Molly told her. Sherlock turned around in shock and inched closer to better hear them.  
  
"God, Molly. That is a mouthful," Sarah muttered. "Are they going to be playing anytime soon?"  
  
"Oh hell yeah. This Saturday at the Blue Parrot. They start at eight," Molly gushed. "The lead singer is dreamy as hell. Especially his eyes. Wow." Sarah rolled her eyes. "Just you wait and see, Sarah. You'll find out what I mean."  
  
"Fine. You win, Molly. Just enough already." The two girls wandered off and Sherlock was left barely breathing.   
  
He had to go. He just had to. Even if John didn't want to see him, Sherlock had to see John. But he couldn't go alone.  
  
"I can't believe you talked me into this," Lestrade groused.   
  
"I can't be here alone. What if he doesn't want to see me? What if he hates me?" Sherlock pleaded.   
  
Lestrade sighed, "Fine. But you're paying the tab."  
  
"I got that money from painting that lady's house, so you're on," Sherlock said and then went to the bar to start up the tab. Ordering a beer for his friend and a single malt whiskey for himself.   
  
They filled the time chatting about the odd jobs Sherlock had been picking up to help pay the bills. Painting houses for old ladies, covering up graffiti with large murals (Mycroft had gotten him that one), and a private portrait or two. They were never quite satisfied with how he painted them. They wanted to be painted the way he painted John. He didn't even bother trying to explain why there was a difference.   
  
Finally the lights dimmed and the band came out on stage. Sherlock kept his head down lest John recognize him and refuse to sing. Oh, how he longed to hear John sing. But the voice that filled the air was not the soft, sultry tenor John had, but the hard, sexual baritone of some stranger.   
  
He looked up and didn't recognize the lead singer at all. The new singer was a little taller than John but he couldn't have been more different than if he was made that way. He had dark, slicked-back hair, pale skin, and deep-set, dark eyes that reminded Sherlock of pools of ink. He sent chills down Sherlock's spine, but not in a good way. Not the way John did.  
  
"I'm just guessing here," Lestrade drolled. "But I assume that's _not_ John."   
  
Sherlock shook his head, too stunned for words.   
  
They sat through the performance anyway. Sherlock was more than a little shocked when the dark-haired man made his way over to their table after the band finished their set.  
  
"Well, hello, sexy," he purred to Sherlock, completely ignoring the other man at the table. Lestrade rolled his eyes. He didn't care really as he wasn't into men, but it did seem rather rude.   
  
"Hello," Sherlock replied, unsure of what to say. He never had this problem with John.   
  
"What brings you to my neck of the woods? You look too pretty for a joint like this one," he stuck out his hand. "The name's Jim."  
  
Sherlock took the hand and immediately wanted to take it back. Jim held on to it a little longer than strictly necessary.   
  
"Maybe you can answer a question for me," Sherlock asked.  
  
"Sure, babe. Anything for you."  
  
"What happened to the other lead singer? The one before you. You see, I saw the band while they were on this cruise and I am merely curious how they got you."  
  
"Oh, sexy. Didn't they tell you?" Sherlock shook his head. "He got married." Jim winked and then sashayed back to the stage.   
  
"He-he got-- oh god!" Sherlock buried his head in his hands.  
  
"Come on, Sherlock. Let's get out of here. I wasn't that impressed by them. The drummer and bassist weren't too bad but the guitarist and lead singer seemed like they were trying to outdo each other."  
  
Sherlock nodded and followed his friend out.   
  
Lestrade decided a couple weeks later to take him to a musical to cheer him up. He picked the wrong one. A Cole Porter-penned tale about love on cruise ship. He also picked the wrong night.   
  
After the show he spotted Mrs. Hudson and moved over to talk to her about how Sherlock's show was going. Sherlock was about to follow when he spotted someone in the back. He walked up to the couple and coughed discreetly.   
  
"John?" He inquired softly, not daring to believe he was seeing him for the first time in nearly a year.   
  
John looked up startled. "Sherlock?" He turned to Mary, frightened. Mary just placed a hand on his arm and he gulped.   
  
"I just-- I just wanted to congratulate you on your marriage," Sherlock stammered, fumbling over his words. He flushed and clenched his fists in frustration.   
  
"I- oh-- no. We're-- we're not married. Just-- friends," John forced out.   
  
"But I heard…" Sherlock trailed off and John shook his head.  
  
"You?" John asked and this time Sherlock shook his head.  
  
The dark-haired man turned when he felt a hand pressed on his shoulder. Standing there was his agent.  
  
"John, Mary; this is my friend, Lestrade. Lestrade, _this_ is John Watson. Mary Morstan," Sherlock said, making the introductions.  
  
Lestrade stuck out his hand. "Greg, pleased to meet you." He shook both their hands before he turned to Sherlock. "We have to go. You have a big day tomorrow and Mrs. Hudson will kill you if you miss your own opening."  
  
"Opening?" inquired Mary.  
  
"Ah, yes," Sherlock blushed. "You see, though my art has been hanging in the Baker Street Gallery for some time now, the owner, Mrs. Hudson, has drummed up enough interest to do a proper art show out of it."  
  
"Come on, Sherlock," Lestrade pressed.  
  
"Right." He turned to John, his eyes begging him to take him back but John looked away. "Good-bye, John."  
  
"Good-bye, Sherlock," he croaked.  
  
And with that, Lestrade led his friend away from the couple and out into the night.


	9. Where the Heart Resides

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is where the movie ends folks. And if you've seen let me just say that that final scene is pain to try and describe. But I hope it's clear for those of you that haven't seen it. 
> 
> But don't worry, I'm not as cruel as director Leo McCarey as there will be an epilogue. 
> 
> Also if the medical stuff is wrong, please forgive me. I did best I could in researching it.

John wove in and out of consciousness as the medics continued to work on him. He wanted to yell at them to take him back. To take him back to the Tower of London, back to Sherlock. He couldn't leave Sherlock up there alone, waiting for him. But the oxygen mask prevented him from uttering a word and every time he tried to move it out of the way to speak, they would shove it back on. The toll of his injuries forced him into the abyss of unconsciousness.   
  
The world was grey when he awoke again, and he could hear two voices speaking somewhere above his head.  
  
"Do you know how much longer he'll remain in the coma?" a soft, woman's voice asked. _Mary_ , his mind supplied.  
  
"He should be awakening any time now," the older male voice replied. Must be the doctor, John thought.  
  
"But it's been three days. How will we know when he wakes up?" Mary's voice was filled with concern. At that moment, John chose to stir.   
  
The doctor chuckled, "A bit like that, really." Mary looked down at John to see his eyes were open, though unfocused.   
  
"John?" Mary had barely time to ask before nurses rushed in and began working on him.  
  
The main nurse, a short woman with long, dark hair, and a name tag that read "Anjanette," came over and started to taking his blood pressure while the other, a blonde nurse with the name tag "Amber," began removing the tube that had kept him breathing while he was in the coma.   
  
Amber put a small bowl under John's chin after she pulled out the tube. He proceeded to throw up the bile and saliva that coated the tube. She then gave him a sip of water.   
  
Anjanette, having completed the blood pressure test, drew blood from his IV and then pumped in the drugs that would help John with pain and with waking up.  
  
Both nurses began flexing his limbs to get blood flowing back into them. They frowned as one when John didn't react as they touched his feet. Anjanette took a needle and poked it into the heel of his left foot, and John, who was chatting with the doctor to find out what all his injuries had been, didn't even flinch.  
  
"Doctor, we have a problem," Amber called out,- getting the doctor's attention. He came over and watched while Anjanette repeated the test.   
  
"John?" the doctor called out.   
  
"Hmm?" came John's reply.   
  
"Wiggle your toes for me?" So John tried. "Wiggle them again?" John did so.   
  
"Shite!" the doctor exclaimed. "I need an SSEP and an EMG, STAT!"   
  
John's eyes went wide. "I didn't wiggle my toes, did I?" he asked the doctor as the nurses rushed out of the room.  
  
Mary looked down at her ex-fiancé. "What's going on, John?"  
  
"They are checking for nerve damage. They think there might be something wrong with the spine."  
  
The doctor looked up curiously. John shrugged the one shoulder. "I was a medic in the RAMC. Been home for almost two-and-half years now."  
  
The doctor nodded. "Right, so I don't have to explain how this works." John shook his head.  
  
The tests showed that while John had damage to his lower spine, he would be able to walk again. It would just be the most painful thing he had gone through, bar none.   
  
Mary offered to pay for it all. The doctor's bills, the physiotherapy, and the drugs. John didn't want to let her, but she refused to take no for an answer.   
  
It was two weeks before he realized what was missing. Sherlock. In all the furor of finding out he was paralyzed, he had forgotten the reason he was out on the road to begin with. He had forgotten the so-called love of his life. Mary offered to find Sherlock to let him know what happened to John, but he refused.   
  
He didn't want Sherlock to pity him. To be with him because he was a cripple. He wanted to walk up to the lanky artist, wrap his arms around his waist, and kiss him like there was no tomorrow. But until he could do the former, he wouldn't do the latter two.  
  
Though his friends tried to convince him otherwise, he refused to go back to the band and took a job at the local clinic. First Bill and then Mike tried. But John was adamant. No one was going to come out to see a cripple sing; and if they did, it would be out of pity. Since John refused to subject the band to that, Mike and Bill went away, shaking their heads.   
  
He even refused to go out while he was recuperating. It took Mary months to convince him that he could go out in his wheelchair. And it turned out to be the worse night of his life since the accident.   
  
They had been waiting for the crowds to leave so Mary could get his chair. That had been the stipulation for coming out, that they come early and leave last, in order to minimize the amount of people who saw him in it. John couldn't even remember what Mary and he had been talking about when he heard a discreet cough above him.   
  
He panicked and silently pleaded with Mary not tell Sherlock what happened. His heart nearly stopped when Sherlock congratulated them on their nuptials. He hastened to reassure his former lover that no, they weren't married. And of course, John had to ask about Sherlock and Irene. He breathed a sigh of relief when Sherlock answer also came out a negative. And then he learned about Sherlock's art and he knew that he had to see it.   
  
After three days of begging, Mary conceded to taking him, even though she held reservations about what seeing the art work would do to John's wellbeing. The outing could set him back emotionally and that was the last thing either of them needed. They wandered through the first half of the art show. The lights and colors were bright in each painting, and even John could tell the person that painted these was happy. Then they passed into the other side of the gallery and John's heart sank. These were the work of a man tormented in heart and soul. They were dark in theme and colors. The paint seemed as though it had been ravaged on rather than applied with simple brush strokes.   
  
He came across one that caused him to bring his hand to his mouth and tears to stream down his face. It was of a lonely figure walking the ramparts of the Tower of London like a ghost.   
  
"Mary?" someone called out. Mary turned around to see Lestrade coming their direction. John sighed and wheeled around to face him, knowing it was too late to hide.   
  
He stopped when he saw John. "Oh." He continued up to the pair like nothing had happened.   
  
"Isn't his work amazing?" Lestrade asked, throwing his arms open to encompass the whole gallery.   
  
Mary just nodded but John said, "I had seen it once before. He had painted a portrait of his grandfather for his grandmother. Exquisite."  
  
Lestrade beamed. "Have you seen it yet?" he asked them, rubbing his hands together in glee.  
  
Mary and John exchanged a glance and shook their heads. They hadn't seen anything that would cause such a reaction in the other man.   
  
"Follow me." And he led the way to the center of the gallery to where a large portrait hung. Mary stopped abruptly in front of John and he nearly ran her over.   
  
"Mary--" he stuttered to a halt as he moved around her to see what had caused such a reaction from his friend. "Oh." There was a large painting of himself in the coat he had admired once upon a time in a little house on the coast of France. It was a John like no one had seen. So bright and beautiful, positively incandescent.   
  
"He- he painted this?" John croaked out from beneath his tears. Lestrade nodded.   
  
"He'd want you to have it, John. I just know he would," the older gentleman explained.   
  
"How much?" Mary asked.   
  
"I can't--" Lestrade protested.  
  
"I know that he hasn't sold anything yet. Let us buy this. Please?"  
  
Lestrade nodded and named what he thought the painting was worth. And though it was several thousand pounds, Mary didn't even bat an eyelash and just signed the check.   
  
Mrs. Hudson beamed at them when she took the check and wrapped the painting.   
  
"Shouldn't it remain here until after the show?" John asked.  
  
"Not for this, dear. Not for this." And the matter was dropped.   
  
"What do you want me to tell him about who bought it? You know he's going to ask," Lestrade inquired as he walked them out.   
  
"Just tell him about the person that bought it, but not who exactly," John replied. Lestrade looked uncomfortable with the idea. "I do plan on telling him, Greg. Honest. Just-- not right now."  
  
"You're waiting until you're better, aren't you?" Greg asked, once they reached the doors.   
  
John nodded.   
  
"Don't."  
  
John looked up at the agent in surprise.   
  
"You know, you turning up and saying 'Hey, sorry I've been avoiding you because I was hurt, but you see, now I'm better!' might not be as well received as you think it will."  
  
John reeled back. Oh. He hadn't thought of it that way. He had been so focused on himself that he didn't think about how Sherlock would feel. Suddenly he felt selfish and more than a little guilty. John nodded and then said his good-byes.  
  
***  
  
Lestrade got John's address from Mrs. Hudson (which she got when she wrapped up the painting for delivery) and dashed out the door to find Sherlock.  
  
He slid into the black sedan and raced toward where Sherlock was painting another mural for the city. He skidded to a stop and hopped out of the car waving the receipt in the air.   
  
"Sherlock! You sold a painting!" he hollered. Sherlock jumped up.  
  
"That's fantastic! Which one did you sell?" Sherlock enthused. He leaped down from his perch and into Lestrade's personal space.   
  
Lestrade jumped back, "Whoa!" He placed his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. "You have to let me explain first before you say anything, alright?"   
  
"Okay…" Sherlock said, drawing out the word.   
  
"I sold 'John'." Sherlock let out a wordless cry of outrage. "You said you would let me finish, Sherlock." The taller man took a step back and folded his arms to await the explanation for why his friend would sell that piece.   
  
"You didn't see the man, Sherlock. You would have sold it to him, too." Lestrade ran his fingers through his hair and huffed as he debated telling his friend the truth. He shook his head. "He was so overcome by it. He actually cried, Sherlock."  
  
"What aren't you telling me, Lestrade?" Sherlock growled.   
  
"He-- he was in a wheelchair, Sherlock. I couldn't say no. Not after how he reacted to the painting."  
  
Sherlock ran his hands over his face. "Did he truly love it?"   
  
"Yes."  
  
Sherlock nodded.  
  
"Also, I got John's address," Lestrade said with a grin. Sherlock's eyes nearly popped out of his head.  
  
"Give it here!" he exclaimed. Lestrade handed it over.   
  
"Just finish the job up here and then go see him. I don't want you to get in trouble."  
  
Sherlock nodded and went back to work. Lestrade watched him paint with renewed vigor before he turned and got back into his car to drive way.   
  
Sherlock rushed home and got a shower to remove the paint from his hair and body. He put on the suit that he wore the day he met John. He wore a different shirt, though. A nice blue one that was the color of John's eyes. _Sentiment_ , he could hear Mycroft scoff in his head, but as with anything his brother said, Sherlock ignored it.   
  
Sherlock wavered ever so slightly over the present. Then he ultimately picked up the box and took it with him.   
  
He hadn't felt this nervous since that day all those months ago when Lestrade drove him to the Tower. The difference this time was that he didn't have his friend bolster his confidence.   
  
He got to John's building and looked up at the dank, dark place. He shuddered to think that John had been here this whole time.  
  
He was about to knock when the door opened up to an older lady.  
  
"Is Doctor Watson here?" he asked and the lady held the door open further to reveal John stretched out on the couch with a book. They made eye contact and John couldn't deny Sherlock entry.   
  
"Hello, Sherlock," John breathed.   
  
"I bet you're wondering how I got here," he asked as he stepped into the ground floor flat.   
  
"Yes. It was quite the surprise," John said.   
  
"The gallery. Lestrade said he got your address from the guest book, he then in turn gave it to me."  
  
"Oh. Well, that was nice of him, I guess," John stammered and blushed.  
  
"Yes, it was, wasn't it?" Sherlock's body moved like a cat as he made his way to the chair.  
  
"Oh! Please sit down," John cried out when he realized that he was being a terrible host.   
  
"Thank you," Sherlock sat and crossed his legs. "I figured I should apologize."  
  
"Oh?" John asked, not quite understanding what was going on.  
  
"Yes. One should apologize when one doesn't keep one's appointments, don't you think?" Sherlock voice took on a bitter edge.   
  
John flushed. "Yes. It's the least they could do."  
  
"A phone call at least," Sherlock pressed.   
  
"Unless, of course, by the time they realized it, the phone that had the number had been lost and the other person had moved," John hedged.   
  
"Hmm… yes, of course. You must have been so angry," Sherlock led.  
  
John blushed again. "Yes, absolutely furious. How could he make me wait…"  
  
"Until well past dark…" Sherlock supplied.   
  
John gulped. He looked up and the distress was evident in face. "Don't ask, Sherlock. Please?"  
  
"Fine," Sherlock huffed.   
  
"So, how have you been?" John asked after a few moments of silence.  
  
"Oh, so you can ask questions, but I can't?" Sherlock sneered.  
  
"I did wonder where you were. What happened to you."  
  
Sherlock leaped to his feet and began pacing.  
  
"I'm leaving."  
  
"Where? When?" John's heart began to beat uncontrollably.  
  
"Across the channel, tonight," Sherlock told him. He looked at the box that he had with him. "I brought you a present."  
  
"I-- you didn't have to, Sherlock."  
  
"It wasn't mine to withhold, John," the dark-haired man said, handing John the gift.  
  
John opened the box and he whimpered, "Oh god, no." He pulled out the coat and ran his face along its lapel. "I wondered why my letters kept coming back. I sent her the recording, you know. She really liked it."  
  
"She really liked you, John. She wanted you to have it," Sherlock muttered. He moved toward the door. "I guess this is good-bye. For good this time."  
  
John nodded mutely. Sherlock's hand reached the door nob and turned around.   
  
"You know, I painted you in that coat. Lestrade said it was my best work. A lot of people wanted to buy it, Mrs. Hudson, the Gallery owner included. But I refused to sell. Too close to my heart. But Lestrade told me that he found someone who truly loved it."  
  
Sherlock had a sudden thought as he moved toward the other door in the room. "He told me-- the gentleman was--" _If John had it, it would be right here_ …. Sherlock opened the door and there was the painting.   
  
He ran to John and knelt in front of him, "Why didn't you tell me, John?" Sherlock kissed him.   
  
"I didn't want to worry you. It was my own fault. I was running for heaven. I was running to you. And if you can paint, I can walk again. I really am getting better. Honest, Sherlock."  
  
They kissed like they were never going to let the other go. Not now, not ever.


	10. Epilogue

_One year later…_

John looked up from where he was pulling weeds to better hear the sounds of a violin being played. He smiled as Sherlock exited the veranda, the violin tucked under his chin. Its music filled the air. 

John pulled off his gloves and moved to stand. He wobbled a bit, but Sherlock was there before his knees buckled too far. 

"Not quite all the way there, yet," Sherlock admonished. "You aren't able to stand without help, and you are only able to walk a short distance without aid."

"What do I care?" John asked, turning in Sherlock's arms to face him. "You will always be there to catch me." John placed his lips on his lover's. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John the best he could, his hands full as they were.

"Are you sure you are able to walk the fifteen steps to the altar?" Sherlock asked, as he nuzzled John's neck. "We can postpone it awhile longer. I don't mind waiting,"

"Sherlock, I'll be fine. I promise. In one week's time, I will walk down the aisle toward the love of my life, and before God and all those witnesses pledge my life to him. And nothing, not even the trifling thing of being a bit wobbly on my feet, is going to stop me from doing so." He lifted his love's head in order to look him in the eyes. "You haven't changed your mind, have you?"

The tall, dark-haired man shook his head. "I just worry is all."

John nodded and let Sherlock lead him back into the house that was now theirs. 

Though John was taking the place of "the bride", he was in black and Sherlock was in virginal white. They had decided to wait until John felt ready to take that step with his injured spine. Then they got engaged and they decided to wait until their wedding night. Some days were harder than others on holding off, but as John looked down the aisle at his fiancé he knew they had made the right choice. Tonight was going to be special. 

They had forgone the traditional groomsmen for just two best men. Lestrade stood for Sherlock and Mike stood for John. 

Cane in hand, John made his way toward the priest and the man he loved more than anything. There was a small smattering of awws and oohs. He handed his cane to Mike and took Sherlock's hand. 

They went through the ritual until they got to their vows, which they had written themselves.

"I, Sherlock Alastair Holmes, take John Hamish Watson to have and to hold. For he is the inspiration behind every brush stroke and every note I play. He brings light to the darkness, hope in the face of despair, love in a world gone mad. I would cross oceans for him. He is my John." He took the ring from Lestrade and placed it on John's finger.

John reached up and wiped a tear that had escaped Sherlock's eye and had fallen down his cheek. 

"I, John Hamish Watson, take Sherlock Alastair Holmes, to have and to hold. For he makes my song take wings to new heights. He is my savior, not because he stood by me through my learning how to walk again, but because he taught me that being different isn't something to be hidden, but embraced. He is mine and mine alone." John took the ring from Mike and smiling, slid it on Sherlock's finger.

"I now pronounce you husbands for as long as you both shall live. You may now kiss the groom." 

They reached for each other and kissed like there was no tomorrow to the sound of cheers. 

The reception was incredible. Sherlock played a song he wrote for his new husband and John sang one he wrote with the Northumberland Fusiliers, with their new guitarist. 

When John wanted to come back, Seb opted to run off to parts unknown with the new leader singer, Jim. Seb's replacement was a goofy little kid with big ears, but he was army, just like the rest of them. The name "KNIGHT" was emblazoned on his chest. Just like the names "MURRAY", "STAMFORD" and now "WATSON-HOLMES" were emblazoned on the other band members' chests.

The happy couple danced to the song John had been singer when the two of them saw each other for the first time. There was cake and champagne to be had, good times for all. Mycroft was seen cracking a smile or two. He even got into a rousing debate with Lestrade over politics, but it was all in good fun and the men walked away as friends.

Mary came and she struck up quite the conversation with Sherlock's brother. John and Sherlock shared a surprised but knowing glance, as the boys decided to play matchmaker. Her father, thankfully had been barred admittance. So she was able to relax and enjoy the evening without him breathing down her neck to find someone new. Mary, of course, became fast friends with Mrs. Hudson, who had graciously made the cake.

Looking around at all their friends and the happiness that surrounded them, Sherlock and John were truly content.


End file.
